Sophia
by AStudyInTeal
Summary: A few weeks after Sherlock's apparent suicide, Irene Adler shows up at 221B with a baby. Sherlock's daughter. What else can John do but adopt the little girl because, well, she is Sherlock's, a small part of his dead best friend. Trouble follows as he raises the child. She is Sherlock's child and what else can you expect but trouble from a Holmes?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

It's seven months after Sherlock's death that there was a knock on 221B Baker Street's door.

Not that John's keeping track.

Despite the melancholic air that has filled 221B in those past seven months, John has not been idle in that time. He allowed himself time to mourn, to wallow. He kept himself from depression. He kept busy.

He got hired at a clinic. Originally, John had considered Bart's, a job at a real hospital, but he couldn't bear walking by that spot daily. Mycroft had been a thorn in his side for a while. He was as stubborn as his brother when he wanted to be and unfortunately for John, he seemed persistent to look after John in lieu of his brother. In fact, the civil servant had taken to paying for half the rent, to ensure John was able to retain his residence in 221B.

But it was not Mycroft who knocked at the door that afternoon.

It was The Woman.

John stared, gaped really.

She returned his gaze steadily. "Doctor Watson, if I may come inside. I have a matter of some urgency to discuss." Numb in disbelief, he held the door open wider to allow her entry.

It was then that the doctor first took a good look at her and actually saw her.

Irene Adler was dressed in an expensive and doubtlessly designer dress, though it was more...conservative than her norm, and a dark coat over it.

She held a swaddled infant to her chest.

* * *

Upstairs in the sitting room of 221B, John sat down in his arm chair; the should-be dead woman took the chair opposite: Sherlock's chair.

She cast a curious glance around the flat. "So, when can we expect the great detective's return, Doctor Watson?"

His mouth dropped a bit. She didn't- she didn't know, then. John's shoulders drooped and he sat back in his chair, but the doctor's eyes did not leave the sleeping child in the (former?) dominatrix's arms.

"We don't," he said, voice coming out hoarse before he cleared his throat. "Sher- He ju-" He swallowed. "Sherlock's dead."

To her credit, she genuinely appeared shocked and appalled. Irene blinked owlishly before simply asking, "How?"

"Your friend, Jim Moriarty," John said bitterly. "He discredited Sherlock to the point of suicide, actually. He jumped off a building seven months ago."

"I did not know," Irene replied quietly. "I was away in America. I hadn't heard."

John stared still. "How are you alive? I thought you were beheaded in Pakistan."

A smile curled her lips. "Sherlock, how else. He helped me get away. He said it was his way of making sure we were even."

Silence fell through the flat. Irene seemed lost in thought, trying to decide her next coarse of action.

When exactly, he wondered, had Irene Adler - _The_ Woman - The Woman who had beaten Sherlock Holmes - had a _child_?

She noticed his distracted gaze. "It was after Sherlock saved me from execution in Karachi," she explained. "I may have dosed him with a little cocktail of drugs, something like our first meeting, but with a..._different_ intended effect."

It didn't take a consulting detective to deduce her meaning. "You used the drugs to seduce him, then?"

"Yes."

After a moment, he sighed and stood abruptly, going to the kitchen. As he pulled out the kettle, he called wearily over his shoulder, "Would you like a cuppa?"

"Black for me, Doctor Watson," she replied politely.

As he put the kettle on, trying to stall her tale but failing, she continued anyways. "I don't suppose I need to tell you the details. We parted. I went to New Jersey; he returned here. And I never expected to involve myself with the great consulting detective again. Unfortunately, the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry," she sighed.

He returned to the sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea. "I suppose, given your presence here, it was Sherlock's, then?"

Irene nodded, sipping at her tea. "Indeed, she is."

"Does she have a name?" the doctor politely inquired.

"Sophia," Irene replied, glancing at the quiet but now waking up child. "I cannot care for her. There are still too many enemies of mine out there. I thought Sherlock would be safer. At least he was not pretending to be dead."

John's grip tightened on his mug. "Nope. Instead, he really is dead."

"You're certain?"

"I saw him fall. I was there, after... I took his pulse: there was none," John replied quietly.

The Woman gave a soft hum of disappointment. "Shame. I expected that he would at least attempt it. She'll have an IQ on his level, I'm certain. He'd be pleased. I suppose an orphanage will suit then."

John's tea paused mid-air. Finally, he returned it to the table and asked, "May I see her?"

Irene offered the swaddled child to him. He cradled her gently, inspecting her features.

She had dark brown curly hair, something of both of her parents. Irene's nose but Sherlock's mouth and his cheekbones by the looks of it. Light grey eyes peered at him, eyes that could only have come from the detective, though they were a shade darker, the influence of Irene's genes. Good looks from both sides. She'd have their intellect, that was unquestionable. Probably her father's curiosity, too.

Abruptly, his head shot back up and he looked to the infant's mother. "You said an orphanage."

She nodded. "Unless you take her."

The words fell from his mouth before he even thought. "I will." The choice required no thought, no consideration.

How could it? For months he'd been mourning the man, his best friend, the greatest and best man he'd ever known. And now, here was a small part of him, offered to him willingly, freely.

How could he let that piece, no matter how small, go?

A child- _Sherlock's_ child.

"I'll take her," he said softly.

Irene smiled, nearly smug. "I thought you might, Doctor Watson. Though he may be dead, you are still entirely loyal to Sherlock." She paused. "I don't think he ever realized just how loyal you were, how much you cared.

"Do you know what he told me? When he deduced the passcode to my mobile? 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.' That's what."

He frowned. "You think I'm foolish for having cared for him."

"For caring about him, even now, Doctor," she replied smoothly. "Why else would you be willing to take in a two month old infant of no familial relation to you?"  
"Because she's Sherlock's," John replied. "And she seems to be the only thing left of him."

Doubt teased the fringes of his mind, but he shoved it away. If nothing else, he could do this. John had nothing better to do with his life now; he may as well raise his dead flatmate's child, even if he never knew of her.

She gave a small hum but then pulled her bag into her lap. From it she withdrew a crisp manilla envelope and a pen. She took a moment to sign and initial a couple papers before laying them upon the table for him and setting the bag down next to them.

She stood and John followed suit, though cautious of the infant in his arms. Irene offered a hand to him. Carefully, he grasped and shook her proffered hand. He could smell her perfume, standing so close, but he barely noticed. "Thank you," she said to him. "I was hoping not to leave her at an orphanage. All the appropriate papers are there, birth certificate, adoption papers, et cetera. Even a paternity test, but feel free to double check." She went to leave, doubtlessly disappear as quickly as she came.

"Good luck," he said to her.

The Woman glanced back and chuckled. "I think you will be the one who needs it, Doctor Watson. Take of her. And thank you. Good day."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving the invalidated army doctor, the infant child of his dead flatmate, and the lingering smell of perfume in the sitting room of 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

As soon as the initial shock wore off, John pulled out his mobile and reluctantly dialed.

It picked up after the first ring. "Yes, John?"

"Mycroft, I need your help," the doctor reluctantly admitted. "You need to come to Baker Street. Now."

* * *

Not five minutes later, the civil servant came up the stairs quietly. He paused when he crossed the threshold of the sitting room, eyes instantly finding the quiet infant that John held, but he smoothly crossed the room to sit down. He grazed curiously at the child for a moment before apparently deducing it all, from the child herself, from the papers on the table, from John's protective demeanor.

"She's Sherlock's, isn't she, Doctor Watson?" he asked rhetorically. "And Ms Adler's, I presume?"

The doctor nodded, not bothering to be surprised that he had deduced it. "Yes. Irene didn't know Sherlock was dead. She was going to leave her with him, or else take her to an orphanage..."

"Something you would not abide by," Mycroft knew. John did not reply. "It won't be easy, John. Holmeses never are."

The former soldier's eyes flashed quickly to the other's face. "Yes, I know, thanks for the advice."

"Then you are certain of this venture?" Mycroft asked. The other nodded. Mycroft leaned back in his chair and observed the doctor.

After a minute or so, he nodded. "I will expedite the paperwork. And have a paternity test done in any case." He paused to rifle through the paperwork on the table before drawing out a birth certificate. "Sophia Irene Holmes. Unsurprising, her choice in naming. She's proud enough to name her daughter after herself, but she knew better than to give her the name Adler. Instead, she used Holmes, a safer choice, given that she should be dead. I'm not in the least surprised she chose Sophia, either. 'Wisdom', indeed."

* * *

Mycroft did not linger long. After John signed a few of the papers, he collected all the paperwork and stood to leave but paused. "As she is my niece, I'll be more than willing to assist you in seeing to any needs she may have. Do not be afraid to ask," he added and left, apparently passing Mrs Hudson on the stairs.

The landlady came up, curious about the unusual number of guests her tenant had received today, and was surprised to find John and the babe.

"She's Sherlock's," John said quietly, handing the baby to Mrs Hudson when the woman offered to take her.

The landlady cooed to the curious infant, who grinned at the two adults. "I suppose she's our newest addition to our little Baker Street family then?" Mrs Hudson asked with a quiet, sad smile. "What's the darling's name?"

"Sophia Holmes," he replied as the little girl smiled and giggled up at them. "Sophie."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Mycroft, as it turned out, was very keen to assist John in caring for Sophie, even if the doctor didn't see him for a few weeks.

The next morning, when John went out shopping, he discovered a rather large deposit had been made into his account, an amount that could only have come from the civil he got home, there was a cot and a pantry full of baby formula waiting for him.

The paperwork was finished obscenely fast. Barely a week after first laying eyes upon her, John was soon the adoptive father of Sophie.

He took a few days off from the clinic to settle things in 221B. First off, he finally entered Sherlock's old room and began to methodically pack things and store them away, save for a few precious mementos. In the process of cleaning out the intended nursery, John discovered what was basically a trophy collection from their past cases: the phone from The Woman herself. A painting from an art forgery case (the painting John recognized as the clever fake). A slightly rusty scimitar. The pink phone from the case John had dubbed 'The Great Game'. Sherlock's harpoon. And many others from cases John had nearly forgotten and some from before they had met.

Once he was finished with the room, it looked very little like it had originally. John allowed the periodic table and the photo of Einstein to remain on the walls (mementos of his own, small memorials in themselves), but otherwise altered the room suitably into a nursery.

All the while, he had taken to reading websites online about parenting. When at work, Mrs Hudson seemed delighted to watch over Sophia for him. Somehow, their little family at Baker Street began to properly heal. Sophia was a wonderful baby, there was no disputing that. John had wondered if she would have inherited Sherlock's tendency for tantrums and sulking. She had not. She was a quiet baby, but a curious and observant one. Though she wouldn't scream or constantly babble like many infants, she always was aware of her surroundings, always watching, always noticing. John had caught her watching him as he made dinner or tea, did the laundry, typed away on his laptop.

She'd watch with those blue-green-silver eyes, with such a familiar knowing gleam to them that it sometimes hurt to meet her gaze. It was Sherlock - dead, gone, "fake", genius, amazing Sherlock - staring out at the doctor from Sophia's face. Sometimes, it was all he could do not to slump down into the armchair and just cry. Usually, however, she had the opposite effect. Yes, she was a vestige of their loss, but she was a reminder that John couldn't wallow in guilt and grief.

But somehow, in those few months after Sophia Holmes arrived at Baker Street, the unknowing infant had managed to sooth their scabbing wounds that had remained after Sherlock's death. The gaping, bleeding wounds had long since turned into scabs, though they had been occasionally scratched at and reopened. But it was Sophia that allowed the scabs to heal into scars - scars that meant the pain was all but gone, though somehow haunting still, but sealed over and closed. The memory remained but the sorrowful pain had passed and faded into a distant ache in the soul.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Mycroft sat waiting, silently, in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club.

Silent, even when the guest arrived and began to, without any form of acknowledgement to Mycroft, began removing his hat, beard, and limp from his appearance. What remained was a familiar sight. A tall, once slender man, now stretched and starved into the likeliness of a skeleton. His cheeks were hollow; his face sallow; his eyes, circled darkly, were weary.

"Sherlock," the politician greeted calmly.

"Mycroft," the other replied calmly. "What news have you to share with me, brother mine? So important that you pull me out of Moscow?"

With a sigh, Mycroft stood and handed a file to his brother. "When," he asked, "were you planning on confessing about your little rescue mission? Or the rendezvous that followed?"

The dead man's face darkened. "The Woman," he muttered. "I suppose she's resurfaced, then? What's she done now? Procured a video of some politician or person of importance?"

"On the contrary, Sherlock," replied Mycroft. "She's already hiding out somewhere on the American east coast, but not before a stop by two-two-one-B Baker Street."

Sherlock stilled, but his neck straightened and tension radiated from his body, like a bloodhound - poised and ready to leap upon its prey, waiting for a signal. "John? What does she want from him?"

"Actually, she was there to give something to you," the civil servant replied smoothly. "She did not know of your 'death', so it seems."

"What was it?"

A smug smile appeared on his face. "Not what, Sherlock: who."

The detective stilled again, though Mycroft momentarily wondered if he was breathing. Finally, Sherlock simply demanded, "Explain."

With a certain relish, Mycroft acquiesced. "Your little...tryst with Ms Adler after you saved her life in Pakistan ended with her pregnant," he replied. "For some indeterminable reason - perhaps her sentimentality toward you or her loneliness - she kept the foetus. Congratulations, Sherlock," he added dryly. "You're a father."

He seemed unsettled but controlled his shock. "Its name?"

"Sophia Irene Holmes."

"She would, wouldn't she?" The detective sighed. Abruptly, he straightened in realization "And John took the child in."

Of course he did. John, despite his previous stint in the army, was an innately selfless individual who disliked causing others harm or pain. He would be the type to take in a friend's child, even if said friend was supposedly dead and had never known of the child. He never changed.

Mycroft nodded. "Indeed. I have my people watching them both constantly, just in case. There are also several bugs in the flat. And," he added, "I am aiding him financially. Don't fret for your little army doctor, Sherlock. He is safe and, now, preoccupied and no longer wallowing in his grief for you. Though you may have never wanted a child, brother mine, your daughter has given John a renewed sense of purpose in his life."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

A few weeks after settling into his new routine, John Watson received a call from Lestrade, asking to meet up for coffee.

In the months that followed the detective's death, the DI had apparently taken it upon himself to look out for the aggrieved doctor, blaming himself somewhat for Sherlock's death. It had taken John a while, but he eventually had forgiven both the DI and Mycroft for their (unwitting, unwilling) parts in the events leading to it.

John accepted the offer.

The DI had known Sherlock, helped him, looked out for him, trusted him, for six years - far more than John himself. The former army doctor rather thought the man deserved to know about Sophie.

He was late getting to the Starbucks. Or Greg was early. He wasn't sure. Either way, Lestrade had his back to the door and didn't see John arrive until he sat down.

After the scandal concerning Sherlock, the media did not spare the detective's acquaintances, even after the detective's death. John was hit hardest, but had little effect on his life, really. He avoided going out too much and had more or less abandoned his blog. After losing Sherlock, there wasn't much left for him to lose.

Greg on the other hand... He'd worked with Sherlock for nearly six years and had brought him into innumerable investigations, mostly without permission. He'd consistently broken regulations by allowing Sherlock to assist. He'd had a lot more than John to lose. The DI retained his job narrowly, though he was still on probation, technically. It was only because of one lone superintendent putting her foot down that he had remained at the Met. The media targeted him too. And it didn't help that he and his wife had split several months ago, with her taking custody. There were days when John wondered if Mycroft, too, had intervened to keep Lestrade his position. Or even if he still had a job at all because of the civil servant.

When Lestrade saw Sophie (which was immediately), the DI stilled and slowly, his eyes met John's.

"I take it she's Sherlock's?" was all he said, though Greg's voice was hoarse with shock.

So he explained it all.

When he finished, Lestrade leaned heavily against the back of his chair. "Jesus, John. That's..." he trailed off. "I'm sorry."

John shook his head. "Don't start that again, Greg," he said and before the DI could reply, he looked down to the infant in his arms. "Sophie, meet your Uncle Greg."

Greg hesitantly took her, holding her with a practiced hand. He and his ex-wife'd had two daughters, if John remembered right. Both were going to uni soon, within a couple years.

It occurred to John suddenly that Lestrade had experience raising children, obviously. He'd probably do a better job in raising the little Holmes, but John couldn't bear the idea of letting Sophie go. Selfish as it may have been, he clung to this small vestige of the detective: the only thing he really had left of him.

Toothlessly, Sophie grinned up at her 'uncle' and laughed a bit; the tension (guilt) in his shoulders dwindled and he smiled back at the infant. "Hi, Sophie."

She stared back with those intelligent grey eyes, still smiling.

Greg glanced back to John. Softly, he said, "She's going to be just like Sherlock."

John's throat tightened unexpectedly, suddenly. "I hope so."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Time, as it always did, went by as it always did: the years flew by but the days inched past.

Before long, the little family of 221B was celebrating Sophie's birthday.

She was an advanced child, there was no doubt of that. She enjoyed John reading to her, even if they were more mature books; Mrs Hudson had suspected she just enjoyed hearing him talk to her. By now, she was already managing to walk on her own. A few months before, she had pointed at John and exclaimed suddenly, "Daddy!" (His heart had twisted at that, partially in delight, but also in gut-wrenching grief; he was not the one who deserved that epithet. But he'd smiled and cheered and encouraged her, hiding the pang of loneliness.)

Advanced indeed.

He wondered if Sherlock was anything like this as a child. She had a full head of her father's curls, which had the same incredible curl, but slightly lighter in hue. She was beginning to thin out a bit, as she grew and lost some baby fat. She still had that shine of intellect in her silver eyes; John swore that only got brighter every day. And he'd swear she was the most beautiful, perfect child.

* * *

Their small make-shift family was gathered in the sitting room of 221B.

Mrs Hudson had made a cake in preparation and was smiling in a way that John hadn't seen since Sherlock's death.

Mycroft had come, having cleared his schedule as to attend. When he'd arrived, Sophie has grinned at her uncle and squealed for him in delight. Mycroft's stern demeanor had softened and he gently scooped up his niece to her delight. Whatever misgivings John may have had beforehand about forgiving Mycroft, they were long gone after seeing how caring he was to Sophie, though he resolutely stuck to "Sophia".

Lestrade, looking stressed but smiling nevertheless, had come a bit late after work. Molly Hooper from Bart's had come too, bringing the toddler a present and everything. The pathologist had been on her toes around John ever since Sherlock had died; likely because of guilt and pity, he suspected, but she seemed genuinely fond of Sophie. Even Harry, who had recently been making more and more progress with her sobriety, had come. Though she had not admitted it, he suspected the fact that she was an aunt had assisted her determination for sobriety.

They'd sung Happy Birthday to Sophie, who blew out her candle.

John glanced around the sitting room of 221B. Mycroft and Greg were talking by John's armchair; Lestrade was grinning and Mycroft was suppressing a smirk, probably at a comment of his own. Molly, Mrs Hudson, and Harry were cooing in delight as Sophie did something doubtlessly adorable.

And John, glancing around the flat, felt his heart warm at the sight: all his family gathered here, happy, laughing, cheerful. But they were missing one member, the one whose personality could fill the room, who could probably have predicted a multitude of things about Sophie's future, who had the all the right to be there. And in the warmth and cheer of the flat, John's heart suddenly felt very heavy in his chest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Soon thereafter came the anniversary of Sherlock's death. John marked the date by taking Sophie with him to her father's grave; it was his first visit in nearly a year, since the one shortly following Sherlock's funeral.

He laid a small bouquet of flowers, simple lilies and irises, at the gravestone and sat down before it.

Sophie he held in his lap.

From his pocket he produced a photograph – a rare one, really, depicting Sherlock and him, laughing at some joke outside a crime scene, if John remembers correctly. Holding the photo out for Sophie to see, he said quietly, "This is your father, Sophie."

And so he told her, even if she doesn't understand. She seemed to, listening curiously and quietly. "His name was Sherlock Holmes and he was the most brilliant man I ever knew. He was a consulting detective, he said when I met him: a unique career for a unique man. I met him when I was looking for a flatmate, but in him I found a lot more than just that. A friend, though he'd rarely admit it. A colleague, because he'd bring me along to crime scenes." John stopped. "I kind of became his protector, I guess. I was always looking out for him, watching his back, from that very first night, too.

"He saved me, you know. If I didn't meet him, I don't think I'd be alive today. I was barely living back then anyways..."

After a pause, he told the quiet infant everything, even though he'll tell her more when she gets old enough to understand. But he told her about the cases and adventures and her mother and then even her father's death.

"...I don't care what anyone tells you or me, Sophie," the doctor concluded softly. "He was the best man, the greatest man I ever knew. And anyone who says something else is lying."

He fell silent then, staring at the gravestone. Sophie, on her toddler legs, stood and wobbled to the gravestone. With fat fingers, she touched the letters that spelled out his name, looking at it curiously, but then glanced back to John. "Daddy?"

John smiled and knelt beside her. She took the photo clumsily, glancing between it and the gravestone. "Sherlock Holmes," he told her quietly.

"Sh'lok," was what she repeated, with a little lisp.

John smiled sadly and wrapped an arm around his daughter. "Yeah. Sherlock."

* * *

In the months that followed it initially, John could barely go anywhere without hearing his name. Now, the Fraudulent Detective who took his own life was old news.

Until he wasn't.

* * *

It came unexpectedly, without warning.

**REPORTER ARRESTED FOR FRAUD** was the first headline. On the front page of _The Daily Mail_ was a picture of Kitty Reilly in handcuffs being put into a car from Scotland Yard.

John skimmed the article. Kitty Reilly, it seemed, was arrested for more than just fraud. Libel, defamation of character, fraud, and more.

There was also the fact that she was being questioned about the disappearance of one Richard Brook, who she had before claimed was on vacation after the media frenzy. Now, it seemed people were starting to wonder about it all.

Then: **'_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_' Web Movement Grows**.

That had surprised him. He hadn't paid much mind to the internet nor public opinion recently. After seeing the article, he Googled it and was astonished by the results.

Graffiti campaigns, fliers, protests, pictures of people wearing deer stalkers and more – all to show support for the late detective and to prove his authenticity. Some of it was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Other articles soon followed in rapid succession.

**Arrested Mobsters confess to Connections with Moriarty**

**Richard Brook Or James Moriarty?  
**

**Where is John Watson now?  
**

** Moriarty/Brook Investigation Continues  
**

** Duchess steps forward in defense of Holmes  
**

**The Met declines Statement on "Fraud" Holmes  
**

** 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' Protestors outside Scotland Yard  
**

**New Evidence found in the Holmes Investigation  
**

**WHERE IS RICHARD BROOK?**

* * *

Things happened fast.

Suddenly, there was a large number of arrested and convicted criminals willing to testify to their dealings with Jim Moriarty, shedding light upon the criminal empire.

Past clients began to step forward in Sherlock's defense, offering their experiences as eyewitness accounts. Reporters gobbled those stories up quickly.

Back at Scotland Yard, they were apparently going through each case Sherlock had been involved with to check for any contamination or tampering of evidence. They found none, but refused to acknowledge the detective as innocent officially. Lestrade and several others who had worked with Sherlock (Dimmock and Gregson he knew, but there were a couple other officers from before John met Sherlock. A couple DIs named Davis and Oldroyd, and even a Superintendent spoke in Sherlock's defense.)

Suddenly, there was an immense public demand that Richard Brook step forth to give his entire story to an unbiased source. He'd been gone for over a year, supposedly (according to Ms Reilly) on vacation in the States to avoid the media.

But no one could find him, and so a missing persons case was created. Kitty Reilly was chief suspect, but they quickly found her to know nothing.

Suspicion turned to John instead: the disgraced former army doctor who had been the detective's best friend, also maligned and defamed by Brook's account.

So he went in willingly after Greg texted and asked him to. The questioning was quick, brief, and kept objective, thankfully. No Andersons or Donovans touching this one, it seemed. They wanted this investigation done correctly, fairly, properly - to John's relief. They didn't expect him to have had anything to do with it, surprisingly; they'd asked him to come in as a formality, really.

But, on his way down the street in search of a cab to go home, he heard his name shouted urgently after him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

"Dr Watson! John Watson, wait!"

He turned to find a vaguely familiar young woman hurrying up to him. "I'm sorry, Miss…?" he trailed off, unable to conjure up her name.

"Rowena Pulver," she supplied. "We met a couple years ago. I was being blackmailed by Milverton…"

John nodded. "Oh, yes, sorry," he replied quickly, the memories rushing back to him. "Er, how are you?"

She shrugged. "Well, not bad. But, do you remember, after you and Mr Holmes got Milverton arrested for all that he did, I told you I owed you one?"

After a moment of recollection, the doctor nodded.

She pulled a business card from her pocket and gave it to him. "I'm a reporter, Dr Watson," she stated. "And, honestly, will all the chaos going on in the press—all the speculation and rumors—I thought you might want to know you have someone in the media on your side. I saw what Mr Holmes did for my case; I know that he was real. So, what I'm trying to say is…if you ever want to say something about it all, no matter how brief or inconsequential, I'll do my best to get it out there. I'm not sure if that's what you would want, but I want you to know you have the option." She cracked a grin. "We aren't all like Kitty Reilly, you know."

It was a week later that he called her.

Which was right after yet another article: JOHN WATSON: ANOTHER VICTIM OF SHERLOCK HOLMES OR AN ACCOMPLICE?

He arranged for her to come to 221B for a meeting the very next day.

* * *

Rowena Pulver was prompt and arrived on time to 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson let her in and told her to go on upstairs.

She halted in the doorway, however, when she saw Doctor Watson there, cradling a young, sleeping child. He glanced up and saw her. In a hushed tone, he said, "Go ahead and sit down, Ms Pulver. I've already made us tea."

The reporter did so, but her eyes remained on the infant for a long moment before she turned her eyes away.

"I suppose this is because of all the recent press about...well, you, Mister Holmes, and Moriarty," she said. "What exactly did you want to accomplish, Doctor Watson?"

"With all the bad press Sherlock has gotten—even though he's dead—I decided it was time that the media realizes that he still has an ally, despite all the damage to his good name."  
Rowena was silent for a moment before opening her notebook. "Where shall we start?"

* * *

**_"BLOGGER WATSON FINALLY SPEAKS OUT"_**  
**_- Rowena Pulver, London -_**

_Nearly one year ago, famed detective Sherlock Holmes leapt to his death after the supposed "reveal" that he was a fake. In the aftermath of this, Holmes's friend Dr John Watson was hounded, called a fake as well. Before today, he has never addressed the issue publicly more than a blog post stating: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_

_RP: How did you and Sherlock Holmes meet?_

_JW: It was a few months after I returned home from Afghanistan. I'd been shot and invalidated home. I was looking for a flatmate and mentioned it to a friend, who introduced me to Sherlock. He took one look at me and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He could read my life story by looking at me. We agreed to look at a flat together, the next day. But then a DI asked him for help with the serial suicides…and he asked me to come along. We pretty much were friends from then on._

_RP: So, Doctor, what were your interactions with James Moriarty before the events preceding Sherlock's death?_

_JW: We first had a case with a bomber strapping hostages into Semtex vests, having us solve his riddles in order to free the hostages. I was the last hostage… I didn't meet Moriarty until after Sherlock had arrived. He almost blew us up. Ten minutes after Moriarty appeared, he vanished and we didn't see him for months, but we kept hearing about him. And then he was on trial. But we weren't prepared for what followed._

_RP: The kidnapping of the ambassador's children._

_JW: That was when the seed of doubt was planted, I think. His daughter, when Sherlock and I walked into the interview room, screamed bloody murder until Sherlock was out of the room. That evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team came to arrest Sherlock._

_RP: That didn't go as planned either. You both escaped._

_JW: Yes. And the next day, I got a call that Mrs Hudson—our landlady and practically a second mother to us both—had been shot. It was a lie, but I did not know and left to check on her. When I got to our flat, I found Mrs Hudson to be fine…and knew it was a trick. I rushed back to Bart's, where I had left Sherlock. As I got out of the cab, I looked up and saw him standing on the roof ledge. Sherlock called me._

_RP: What did he say?_

_JW: He told me that everyone was right, that he'd hired Brook as an actor, that he was a fake. He told me to tell everyone that he was a fake._

_RP: You didn't._

_JW: I knew he was lying. He was my best friend as well as my flat mate for more than a year. There was no way he was telling the truth._

_RP: And afterwards…?_

_JW: …Well. He jumped._

_RP: Many people think he did because everyone thought he was a fraud. What do you think about that theory? And why would he have lied to you?_

_JW: To this day, I'm uncertain. I can only theorize. But Sherlock would never have killed himself like that. Suicide would never have been in his repertoire. He was far too fond of himself for that. And besides, he never cared for what people thought of him. Not even if they thought he was wrong. 'That would make them wrong or stupid,' he told me once. Why he'd kill himself…it wouldn't have been because of everyone believing him to be a fraud. And he'd never have said he was a fraud unless he was being threatened._

_RP: You think Moriarty was threatening to kill him?_

_JW: No, not if he jumped. Probably something else. We'll never know._

_RP: What do you think about "Richard Brook"—his disappearance?_

_JW: Honestly, now that people are beginning to question the validity of his account, I'm not surprised he vanished. He's probably in America or elsewhere by now, laughing at all of this._

_RP: So, Doctor, you still believe that Sherlock was real? That Moriarty existed?_

_JW: Of course. He was my best friend and the greatest man I ever knew. If he wasn't real, then the past two and a half years of my life were all a lie. I don't care what people are saying or thinking about him. I still believe in Sherlock Holmes._

_(Cont. on next page)_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

The idea had come to John by accident from Mrs Hudson.

In his armchair, John had been sitting at his laptop, staring at a new, blank blog post that he was trying to write. Sophie was on the floor in front of him, flipping through a book. Despite that she was just over two years old, she had the development levels of a four year old and was beginning to read. She didn't speak much, one a word here or there, but John was certain that was by her own choice rather than inability.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs with a plate of biscuits, warm from the open. "John, Sophie, would you care for some tea, dearies? I've brought up some biscuits for you too." Sophie nodded eagerly, looking up from her book. John gave a noncommittal hum, trying to bring himself to write.

But the words wouldn't come.

He couldn't write of Sophie; despite being dead for more than two years, Sherlock still had enemies. It'd be dangerous of him to so obviously announce that the detective had reproduced—which was why he'd asked Rowena Pulver not to mention his child to anyone. The former client hastily agreed.

Mrs Hudson set his tea beside him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's a shame you haven't kept up with your blog, John. I always enjoyed reading it; many others too."

"I only ever wrote up cases or gave boring updates on daily life," he shrugged. "Not much to write about now."

She tutted. "Shame about those cases. Did you ever go back and write up some of the old cases? I remember you planned to…before."

John paused. "No, I didn't. I forgot about that."

"Shame. Those case were so popular, you could have published them in a book and it would have become a bestseller."

He barely heard the landlady return to her flat downstairs, so deep was he in his thoughts. The doctor only snapped out of his thoughts when Sophie was tugging at his pants leg, asking him to climb into his lap. He scooped her up calmly.

It was obvious that she was taking after Sherlock's genes. Her curly dark brown hair was down to her shoulders and was absolute chaos in the morning. She had the same grey eyes and, looking past the baby fat, the same face and cheekbones. The look of intellect in her eyes was all Sherlock, but there were days that the elegance in her demeanor and mannerisms were so obviously Irene Adler.

John sighed. "Do you think I should?" he asked. "Do you think I should publish a book with all my stories about your father?"

Sherlock, whenever John spoke of him to Sophie, was always "your father", while she'd taken to (when she did speak) calling John "daddy".

After a pause, the little girl nodded.

So it was settled.

* * *

A few nights later, John invited Lestrade out for drinks. After some usual small talk, John looked to the DI and asked, "Greg, if you can get them for me, I'd like to look over some of the old case files—the cases that Sherlock and I helped with."

"What for?" he asked suspiciously.

The doctor sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "I decided to rewrite some of the old posts from my blog. A Study in Pink and all of those. If I can, I was thinking about publishing them."

Greg thought for a moment before shrugging. "I'll see what I can do. As long as names are changed and such, I don't think there will be a problem from the Met with this. What made you think of it?"

"Mrs Hudson sort of gave me the idea and Sophie liked the thought of being able to hear more about Sherlock," John explained. "I thought…well. I thought it might help."

The DI asked gently, "Help people understand or help you get over it all?"

He shrugged. "Both, I guess. Besides, I had intended on rewriting them before…well. Before, anyways."

"How's Sophie doing?" Greg asked. "I haven't seen her in a couple weeks."

"Pretty good, rea—"

"Greg?"

Both men turned, but neither got up from their bar stools. "Oh, Superintendent," the DI said. "You startled me."

The woman smiled in amusement, exposing two rows of neat and orderly white teeth. She was a healthy tan with dark auburn hair, tied tidily at the nape of her neck. Despite very straight posture and four inch heels, she wasn't very tall, maybe a couple inches off of John's height, but she was leanly muscled with gentle curves. Her light blue eyes glanced to John curiously before returning to Lestrade.

She chuckled. "We're not at work nor on duty, Greg. Do me favor and you just call me Mira and introduce me to your friend here."

"Doctor John Watson," he said, offering his hand.

Mira grasped and shook it warmly. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Doctor," she replied with a light smile. "I was wondering if I'd ever meet you."

To his left, Greg smirked to himself as he glanced between the two before hurriedly excusing himself to leave.

It seemed, to John, like it had been forever since a woman had flirted with him or even showed interest. He grinned back to her. "Let me buy you the next round, if you'd like."

Again, that mysterious, mischievous smirk crossed her face. "I'd like that, Doctor. I'd like that a lot."

* * *

***wiggles eyebrows***

**You know who that is, right?  
**

**Eheheheheh...  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Once he had the files and had found Sherlock's old case notes, John found that writing the cases—in far more depth and detail than that on his blog—came easily. It was only the last one—the most recent—that gave him problems in writing out.

Mycroft eventually confessed that his agents had discovered Sherlock's motivation for his suicide, as well as other information. "Reichenbach, John," he had said. "What does it mean? Look it up and you will see Moriarty's game." He'd felt so stupid when he did as the civil servant suggested. Sherlock had doubtlessly known.

Within a couple months, he had already met with a literary agent, who just rung him the other day to tell the doctor that he'd gotten a publishing company to take the manuscript. "It should be out in a few months," he told John. "Once they're being printed, I'll send you a few advanced copies, alright?"

"Yes, and thank you, Mr Doyle," John replied and hung up.

* * *

That evening, he and Sophie had gone out for dinner. Though they did not frequent it often anymore, Angelo was always delighted (if a bit saddened by nostalgia) to see them, especially little Sophie. "On the house," he always insisted.

In between bites of her pasta, Sophie was telling him all about a book she'd read that day. An old chemistry book she had found that doubtlessly belonged to her father, containing material that should be far beyond a child of her age. But, she was a Holmes.

But midway through some trivia about blood types, John spotted a familiar face coming into the restaurant. "Mira?"

The woman turned. "Oh, hello, John," she said with a smile.

In the past few months since their introduction, he'd seen her frequently during his now-weekly nights at the pub with her and Lestrade. Mira, as he had learned, was a Superintendent down at Scotland Yard. In fact, she had been the one to speak up in Sherlock's defense to the media. It was on her word that Lestrade had retained his job, as many others had, apparently, called for his resignation. He was surprised to find such a friend in her.

"Were you having dinner here alone?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Yeah. I just got off a double shift. There was a very…grisly triple murder and rape case today. And I was stuck with all the paper work."

"Care to join us, then?" he asked, motioning to an empty space on the booth at their table.

She nodded and sat down. Right across from Sophie. Mira blinked in surprise and looked to John in confusion. "You have a daughter?"

He nodded. Sophie smiled slightly and nodded in greeting but continued eating her pasta. Mira stared at John still. "You never mentioned…" she trailed off but seemed to pull herself together. "She, um. She takes after her mother, then?" the superintendent asked.

John shook his head. "Sophie is—was—Sherlock's," he said quietly. "He never knew. Sophie's mother gave her to me soon after Sherlock died. So I adopted her."

"Oh," she all but whispered in shock. "I'm—I'm so sorry, John. I didn't know…but I suppose you kept it from everyone on purpose."

The doctor nodded grimly. "Even after he's dead, there are still those out there, doubtlessly, who would go after her—and me—if they knew."

She reached over and grasped his left hand in both of hers. "I won't tell a soul, John. I swear. You can trust me."

He smiled. "I know. I do." At this, Sophie looked up from her meal and examined the woman curiously.

"So, you mentioned progress about your book?" she asked, changing the subject.

John nodded. "Yeah. Should be out in a few months, in fact. Publishers are giving it some sort of priority, I guess. Probably for publicity, with all of the media and newspapers still going at it."

"What cases were in there?" she asked. "I remember A Study in Pink, obviously. The smuggling ring and the bank—oh, The Blind Banker, that's right. And then the one with Moriarty and his bombs…"

"The Great Game," Sophie provided suddenly with a grin. John smiled to himself.

Mira nodded. "Yes, that's the one. The Tilly Briggs Cruise case, The Geek Interpreter, The Speckled Blond, The Aluminium Crutch, The Six Thatchers, what was it—belly button, something or other?"

"The Navel Treatment," the doctor replied.

"The Irene Adler case, The Hound of Baskerville, and...what did you call the last one?" she asked softly.

"The Reichenbach Fall," he replied quietly. "Because of Rich Brook," he spat the name quietly.

The superintendent gave him a sad, gentle smile. "He'd be proud," she said softly.

"No, he never really liked my blog."

"Not of that," she replied. "Of you. If I were you…" she shook her head regretfully. "I'd not have let him run off and get away with it. He'd be proud that you've lived on anyways, not allowed yourself to stew in misery. You are living your life in spite of the loss you've suffered, and even are raising a beautiful daughter. Even Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you for that."

Neither or them noticed (or if they had noticed, neither mentioned) that they still held hands on the table.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

Three months later, John had gotten several advanced copies of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, by Dr John Watson.

The first he had given to Mrs Hudson, whose eyes had teared up when she saw it. Next came Greg and Mira, both of whom he gave copies to one evening at the pub. He considered giving one to Mycroft but, knowing the omniscient civil servant, he had likely had a copy for months now.

The last he gave to Sophie, who immediately pulled him into his armchair, sat in his lap and demanded he begin reading it to her.

"_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, by Dr John Watson," he read the title page.

Sophie grinned up at him. "Daddy," she said in pride.

He kissed the top of her head and turned the page. "For Sophie," he had dedicated it. She wrapped her arms about him as tightly as she could and hugged him with a fierceness of pride and fondness that squeezed the air from his lungs until she released him.

"_Part One: A Study In Pink…_"

* * *

Later that week, Mira called him. "That was brilliant," she said as soon as he picked up. "I loved it, John. My God — you can write so...differently than on your blog. It was great. People are going to love it."

John smiled. "Thanks. The blog entries were done very quickly, mainly to get the facts across in the most basic manner. I was more careful with the details for the book."

"Well, it was very truthful and honest, too. You got Sherlock spot on," she remarked. He could hear the grin in her voice. "So, are you…are you doing anything tonight?"

"No, I think I'm free. D'you want me to meet you down at the pub again, have a couple pints?" he asked.

She hesitated. "No, actually I was thinking dinner. As...as a date," Mira added nervously. "What do you say?"

He smiled. "That sounds great."

* * *

**Just a bit of fluff for you guys on account of the reviews! ;) **

**I AM curious though. What are your thoughts on Mira? Trust me, she'll be around for a while and you'll learn more about her past in the next chapter. **

**After that, however, is where the plot _truly_ thickens. Eheheheh...  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Their dinner turned out to be one of the best dates he'd ever had since before his army days. She had quickly come to be the highlight of his day, after Sophie.

"So," he eventually asked, "where are you from, Mira?"

"London," she replied. "Born and raised here. My father was a minor politician and sent me away to boarding schools for half my childhood. He spent the rest avoiding me. I left as soon as I could, joined the army."

"Really?" he asked. "I didn't know that."

She shrugged. "After training, I wasn't really there for too long before I got recruited into special ops…well. More like black ops," she amended. "I can't really say much about the details."

"Why did you quit there and instead join the Met?" he asked, curious.

Mira stilled abruptly then shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "My team was in Greece to tail someone for an op."

"Musta been nice there," he commented.

She shrugged. "I didn't really care for all the islands and such. I can't…well. I can't swim at all, so I rather avoided boats and the ocean as much as I could. I never cared for Greece.

"There was a possible terrorist cell there and we were to investigate a...ah, someone of significance's involvement in it, hence tailing him. Somehow, we were discovered or betrayed. They picked them all off, one by one until it was just me. I was taken captive."

Her hands were intertwined nervously on the table between them. Gently, he reached over and took her hands, rubbing them comfortingly. "You don't have to say if you don't want to. I understand," he offered with a kind smile.

One corner of her frown lifted. "Yeah. You do. I knew you would—far more than most. I wouldn't tell you otherwise," she took in a shuddering breath. "I was in there for a week. They...well, let's just say they wanted information out of me that I was unwilling to give without a fight. I guess the rest of my team, mostly, had been captured too, but kept separately and then killed. One day, they pulled me from my dingy cell and led me outside the compound over to a small field. My team was there," Mira whispered. "All dead. Most looked as if tortured, too. But all dead before I arrived. One of my captors handed me a shovel and told me if I wanted them buried properly, I was going to do it all myself."

Her voice had gone apathetic and calm, but there was pain in her eyes. John squeezed her hand in comfort, trying not to let his face betray his horror.

"So I buried them," Mira whispered. "Just as I finished, though, I attacked the two guards with the shovel and ran for it. I escaped and my handlers eventually found me. After I was released from the hospital, I turned in my resignation and returned to London."

"And you joined the Met," John concluded.

She nodded sadly and asked, "You mentioned that you were shot in the line of duty…?"

"Yeah. Left shoulder,"

She gave a hum of sympathy and understanding but changed the subject. "In one chapter of your book, you said something about Sherlock stealing a bus?"

He laughed at the memory and began to weave the tale. "Well, Gregson called us in on a case of tourists being targeted..."

They steered their conversation to lighter topics, laughing and enjoying themselves.

* * *

In hindsight, John wasn't at all prepared for the adventure that followed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

His mobile's ringing from his pocket made John jump in surprise. He glanced at the caller ID and was surprised to find it to be Greg. The DI should be at work; it was nine in the morning.

"What's wrong?" he said in lieu of a greeting.

Lestrade sighed. "Official business, I'm afraid. There's been a murder, an earl was killed earlier. Our ME is on leave for the week and we need to work now. High-profile case and all that."

An icy tremor traveled down his spine. "Greg, I can't. I have to watch Sophie today. I can't just leave."

"John, please," the DI asked. The stress was audible in his voice. "A personal favor. None of the other MEs are available on such short notice. Please."

The doctor sighed. "I will ask Mrs Hudson to watch Sophie for me. But, Greg. I'm not…I'm not Sherlock."

The silence on the line said more than words ever could. Eventually, the DI sighed. "I know. I know you're not, John. But you're the closest thing we've got."

John told him, "Text me the address and I'll take a cab."

* * *

He was less than pleased to see that it was Sergeant Donovan outside the crime scene—a lavish and opulent townhouse on Park Lane in Westminster.

The sergeant pursed her lips at the sight of him but held the tape up for him to pass. "Upstairs, first room on the left, Doctor Watson," she advised, her politeness forced.

John said nothing as he passed her.

No one dared say a word to him until he finally found Greg upstairs, outside a room upstairs, the room to which Donovan had pointed him.

The DI came right over. "John, thank you for coming," he said with a grim smile. "I'm sorry for all this, but…you know. I appreciate it."

He shrugged as he put on the forensics suit (trying not to remember the first time he'd gone to a crime scene and had to put a similar one on). "You owe me one, Greg. Alright, what have you got?"

"Ronald Adair, thirty-seven. He was an earl and a cousin of the royal family," he informed John as they entered the room. "Hence the urgency. Found this morning by his sister, with whom he shares the house. She was staying at a friend's the other night and he wasn't up as usual. No sign of forced entry or robbery. Oh, er, they had to bust the door open; it was locked from the inside."

The office was fairly simple. A desk was in front of an open window. The victim had been seated in the desk chair, but (presumably after being shot) had fallen backwards in the chair.

John knelt beside the body.

"Shot in the left temple. The soft-nosed bullet mushroomed out, you can see here," he pointed for Lestrade and the other officers to see. "Instantaneous death, I'd say."

With a gloved hand, he reached to the man's face and opened an eye. "Died twelve hours ago, I'd say; the cornea's cloudy already so at least that…" he continued his examination. "Died between ten and eleven-thirty last night."

He stood, glancing around the room. "The shooter was probably standing to the victim's left," he positioned himself to illustrate. "The man was looking forward, so got shot in the temple. Probably trusted his killer then, I'd say."

"How'd the murderer get in, then?" asked one of the agents. "The window?"

John glanced to the open window, examined its sill and poked his head out of it to look around. "No, he couldn't have. It's a twenty foot drop to the ground. Look at the flowerbed, there's no sign of disturbance in it."

The doctor looked down at the desk, upon which rested a small pile of bank notes and a sheet of numbers and names. A glance at the names gave away nothing: Hiddleston, Scarrow, Moran, Brown, Asher. A poker player, maybe, judging by some of the figures.

Lestrade sighed. "Wonderful. No one heard a shot. There's no sign of the weapon nor the killer. And the door is locked from the inside. And so far, no one has a motive. Wonderful. This'll make for a lovely press conference."

In times like this, John didn't envy the Met one bit.

* * *

He returned to Baker Street an hour later, after paperwork, (literally) running into an apparently homeless man outside the scene, and catching a cab home. After a knock on 221A's door, John came in to find Mrs Hudson in her kitchen in front of the oven and Sophie at the table, cheerfully eating from a small plate of biscuits.

"Thanks, Mrs H," he said. "It really couldn't wait. Greg's ME was out and it was a high profile case."

She looked at him curiously. "Oh, was it that earl? What was the name—Adair? It was in the paper."

John nodded grimly. "Yeah. I don't envy the Yard. Not a simple case. I think," he added quietly, "Sherlock would have liked it."

The landlady smiled sadly and patted his shoulder. "He always did like the funny ones," she remarked and shook her head fondly.

"Sophie, are you coming upstairs or would you like to stay here with Mrs Hudson for a bit?" he asked.

The little girl looked to the older woman, who smiled and told her, "You may take the plate of biscuits with you, dear."

With a bright smile, Sophia hopped down from her chair, holding the plate, and hurriedly went upstairs.

"Thanks again," John said. "How's your hip? You said it was acting up yesterday."

She shrugged. "Still aching, but nothing too bad. Now, go on upstairs before that girl digs out on of her father's chemistry sets."

John chuckled to himself at the image that came to his mind, of little Sophie at the kitchen table with a pipette in hand and a flask giving off smoke and heat in a chemical reaction.

_I've got a future chemist in my future_, he thought to himself. _Just like Sherlock, that one._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Later that day, John and Sophie were going to buy groceries when a familiar, anonymous black car pulled up beside them on the curb.

His phone beeped.

**_Get in the car, John. This is important. –Mycroft_**

The doctor sighed in annoyance. Another text came not five seconds after the first:

**_Tesco can wait. This cannot. –Mycroft_**

So John got into the car. Sophie sat beside her daddy and simply said, "Uncle Mycroft." It wasn't a question. Not from her.

The civil servant's PA—who had once introduced herself as Anthea, a lifetime ago—sat opposite him, texting. A few minutes into the ride, she glanced up. Sophie smiled to her. "Hello, Miss Anthea," she said with a smile. The PA smiled back kindly.

Another minute of silence later, the car pulled to a stop in front of the Diogenes. "Same room?" John asked tiredly.

Anthea nodded. "As always. However, he requests that you allow Sophia to remain in here. Your meeting's subject matter is of a very sensitive nature."

He glanced at Sophie, who nodded to him. Reluctantly, he sighed. "Alright." As he got out of the car, he heard Anthea ask the little girl, "Have you ever played Angry Birds, Sophie?" John chuckled at the thought. She'd have it figured out within five minutes. _It's just simple geometry and angles_, he could almost hear her say.

* * *

The Diogenes club was the same as ever. No one so much as glanced at him as he went to the usual room. John closed the door behind him as he came in.

Mycroft was seated in one of the three armchairs in the room, in the one facing the door.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked tiredly, stepping toward to sit in one of the armchairs. But someone stood up from one with its back to the door.

Someone with a tall and painfully thin physique, pale skin, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, piercing grey eyes.

If the impact of his head on the floor hurt, he didn't remember it.

* * *

He woke to the sound of a hushed argument.

"…I warned you to be gentle with the surprise."

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft."

"He's thought you dead for years now, Sherlock."

Not a dream then. Hesitantly, John opened his eyes.

He was still on the floor, but _he _was kneeling beside the doctor. He smiled. "Hello, John."

John said nothing, staring.

"I apologize for the shock," the not-dead consulting detective continued. "I didn't think you'd be so affected."

He offered a hand to help John up. The former army doctor accepted it, surprised to find it real and tangible. Definitely real, then. Good.

Before the detective could say anymore, John lunged at him and punched him across the face. He fell backwards, nearly onto the armchair.

"What the _hell_, Sherlock!" he exclaimed. "All this time? You're alive. You've been alive for nearly four years and you just—you just barge back in? _What the hell_? You couldn't have told me?"

Sherlock stood, face doubtlessly going to bruise, but for now looking only shamefaced. "I couldn't, John. It wasn't safe for—"

"_Safe_?" John repeated. "To hell with safety; I thought we had both rather agreed on that early on! While you've been off doing God knows what, I watched you _die_, I _buried_ you, I _mourned _you! Does that mean nothing to you?

"And lying like that on your call!" he exclaimed, pacing in his fury. Because if he didn't let off some of this angry energy now, he'd punch Sherlock again. "I had to live with knowing the last thing my best friend in the world ever said to me _was a lie_!"

He paused for a breath, glaring at Sherlock, who seemed to be struggling for words.

"Do you know what the last three years have been like?" he spat. "Not a month after your death, want to know who shows up on the doorstep? _Irene fucking Adler_! _With YOUR CHILD, no less!_"

"I know," the detective said quietly. "I know about Sophia...Mycroft told me about her."

John turned on his heel to face the civil servant, who was watching the other two quietly. "_You!_ You knew—all this time. You knew. About Sherlock. But you didn't tell me?"

He took a steadying breath and sat down in an armchair, arms crossed. "You two had better have damn good excuses for all this."

Grimacing, Sherlock sat as well. Finally, he spoke. "I had one of the Irregulars call you to get you out while I met Moriarty on the roof. There was no keycode, as he explained. Daylight robbery," he added contemptuously. "He gave me two options: jump and kill myself, completing his story of my fraudulence. He had three snipers in place—one for each of my only friends. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you," he said quietly. "If his people didn't see me jump, they'd shoot."

"Why not a sniper on you, Mycroft?" he asked curiously.

He sniffed. "I was in a private meeting with the Prime Minister at the time, in the center of number ten Downing Street. Rather difficult to get a sniper into there," he said dryly but added, "Had I been in a more accessible location, I doubt he would have taken the trouble. He wouldn't have thought us close enough for my assassination to be worth the effort."

John nodded. "So, what happened to Moriarty, anyways?"

Sherlock scowled. "He shot himself in the head on the rooftop. His body was never found. I believe one of his subordinates…cleaned up later, before he was found. After he killed himself, I called you, John."

"And then you faked your death. How?"

"I had Molly—" He didn't finish the sentence.

John's jaw dropped in shock and (more) anger. "Molly. Molly Hooper. You let _Molly Hooper_ know you were alive, but not me." His tone was irately accusing.

"She was necessary for faking my death. As for Mycroft, I required his assistance afterward. I remained in London for only a brief time. Then I went off across the continent to dismantle Moriarty's web, his organization. It took longer than I thought."

John nodded, the anger slowly abating from him. "Why didn't you just tell me? Even if you left."

"Some of Moriarty's employees and allies were still at work in Britain, several in London," Mycroft replied. "Had he revealed himself to you, there was the fear that you might—perhaps only by accident—let it slip that he was alive. It was safer for you. Especially after you took in Sophia. Then we had to look out for you and her."

The doctor's eyes closed as he nodded in grudging understanding of their logic. For Sophie, he could understand it. "Alright. I suppose this means you've finished with Moriarty's network? You're coming home then?"

"Nearly finished, but one," he replied darkly. "I returned because I received a direct threat against you and Sophie." He withdrew a little prepaid mobile phone and opened a text, holding it out for John to see.

It was a photo of John holding Sophie, who was asleep and leaning her head on his shoulder. The angle suggested it had been taken through the window of 221B from the flat across the street. What was most striking about the photo was that there were crosshairs in the lens, with the center overlaid on John and Sophie.

The picture had been sent in a text. From a withheld number, the text simply read:

**_How safe are they without you, Sherlock? ~Moran_**

"Who is Moran?" he asked, mouth dry.

Mycroft picked up a thin folder from the table beside him. "From our intelligence gathering, Colonel Moran was Jim Moriarty's right hand man and his favorite sniper. We know very little of him, however. Most of Moriarty's employees did not have direct contact, only through emails and such. Some only knew of him as The Colonel. Others never knew of him until he put a bullet through their skull as a means of dismissing them from Moriarty's network. One of my informants said he was in the Royal Air Force. Another two said the Royal Marines. There are no possible matching files, however, of any person by the name of Moran in any of the armed forces' databases. Perhaps he was never there at all. As I said, not much information yet, but I have my people out looking. Sherlock only received the threat four hours ago. My people are working. We should have more soon."

John sat back in the armchair, trying to process all of the information he'd been presented with. Eventually he sighed. "I need to go back home. I need time to think about all this."

Sherlock grinned, standing in tandem with John. "Excellent. I have missed Baker Street, I must say."

"Er—Sherlock. I, um," he fumbled for words. "I have a date. Tonight. You can't come back to Baker Street now."

His eyebrows rose. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I do," he snapped. "For several months now. I was going to cook dinner tonight for her. And besides, do you really think it would be such a great idea to spring the fact that you're alive on Sophie? If you're worried about _me_ giving you away, what about her?"

Sherlock deflated slightly. "Of course, yes," he grudgingly admitted.

Mycroft spoke up then. "Ah, yes. Miss Mira Morstan. How _is _she doing?"

"Why don't you stick to worrying about Moran and I'll worry about my girlfriend, thanks," John replied sharply, but looked to Sherlock for a moment.

Slowly, he went over and hugged the mad detective. "Thank you," he said quietly, "For not...being dead." He pulled back and glared warningly. "But don't _ever_ do it again. Or else."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

"Are you all right, John? You seem stressed."

Mira's gentle question pulled him from his thoughts. "Oh—er, yeah. Sorry," he sheepishly replied. "Bit stressed lately."

She smiled in understanding. "Yeah. I can relate to that. The Adair murder's being a pain my arse."

"How's that going?" he asked, pouring two glasses of wine.

"Miserably," she replied. "No leads at all. No progress. The press has been bloody awful, hounding us about it. And…" she trailed off and took a long sip of the wine.

The Met Superintendant looked stressed and exhausted, John noted with sympathy. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there the week before. Said eyes were slightly red. Her face was pale and drawn.

Finally, she drew in a deep breath and released it slowly after a long moment. "What did it feel like…after, after Sherlock…died?" she asked so quietly he almost did not hear her.

It was his turn to draw in a shuddering breath. The impulse to tell her—to confide this miraculous secret with her—bubbled in his throat but he fought it back and schooled his expression carefully. His reply was no less honest than it would have been a day ago.

"He was my best friend and the best man I'd ever known," he said slowly. "It had felt like...one of those friendships you just knew would last forever. And then…that was just snatched away. I've had other friends but none were as close as him and me. The flat, for months, just seemed hollow, empty, without him. Didn't feel like home anymore. In a way, it was worse than after coming back from Afghanistan. Then, I at least had hope that things would get better. Then did and I had a taste of what life—pure, unrestrained, wild, brilliant life that I'd never known before—was like...and then it was snatched away, like a rug pulled out from under me. And it felt empty in comparison.

"Things…got better. Sophie came and I had something—someone—to base my life around, to motivate me not to wallow. You and Greg and the others have helped too. But there are times..."

He sighed and took a long drink of wine.

Mira bit her lip. Carefully, she reached over and grasped his hand before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just...well.

"Earlier this week, one of our DIs—Martin Chambers—was killed," she said in forced calm. John nodded; he'd heard that much from the news, but waited for her to continue.

"I was—close to him. We were colleagues for a long time and the best of friends. Rather like you and Sherlock, I suppose. I got promoted a couple years back and we didn't have much time to spend together anymore. I kept saying to myself, I'll visit next week. I'll have time to go to the pub with him then. I have to do this paperwork now, I'll reschedule for later. I'll have time later..." she whispered. Her voiced cracked. "...and then, suddenly, I didn't."

Her eyes were clenched shut in an attempt not to allow tears to fall. The doctor set aside the wine and slowly coaxed her to the couch. They curled up there, arms around each other, seeking and receiving comfort.

"It's my fault, too," she said into his shoulder. "I put him on the Adair case. There's a number of DIs collaborating on it and I wanted him on it. So he was. Last Tuesday he called me and said he might have a lead that he'd bring in tomorrow. And then, Wednesday, he didn't show up. We sent someone around and they...found him."

"It was the same killer, d'you think?" he asked.

She shrugged. "We're quite certain it is. He was shot inside his home, sitting in his living room, point blank at his forehead. Execution style. The bullet matched."

John said nothing, merely rubbing her back, offering silent comfort and solace, fighting internally.

He wanted to tell her badly. _Sherlock's alive_, he wanted to shout it into the blasted silence of the living room of 221B. _He's alive and coming home soon. You'll get to meet him. I'll get to introduce you and him, my girlfriend and my best friend. A girlfriend I finally think he won't drive away, too..._

But he said none of this.

Instead, he said to her, "Be careful, please, Mira. If it was connected to the Adair murder...they might go after other Met officers."

She nodded. "We've been discussing that. We're also monitoring the ones on the case carefully, to be sure no one leaks any info about possible leaks."

"Good."

Because if Moran might target him and Sophie, Mira could be considered fair game as well. And that was something he didn't want at all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Two days later, John was at the clinic where he had been working for nearly four years. He'd just seen out a regular—Mrs Whitfield, an elderly woman whose arthritis had a proclivity for flaring up unexpectedly.

When his next patient came in, shutting the door behind him, John leaned back in his desk and said, "Really, Sherlock?"

The detective removed his disguise carefully. "Hello John."

"What is it, Sherlock? I'm working," the doctor said with a frown.

"I am aware," he said wryly, glancing around the office. "I know you are still...angry with me, but I require your assistance."

John crossed his arms. "With what?" he reluctantly asked, motioning for Sherlock to be seated.

Once settled, the detective elaborated. "I've laid a trap for Moran. Tonight. We have the chance of catching him and having him arrested."

"Care to share the details of this trap with the rest of the class?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I believe he will be attempting to kill me tonight," he explained. "I have been followed several times and am certain that Moran has discovered my current lodgings today. Don't worry," Sherlock added. "I've always taken extra precautions before coming to see you. He does not know you are aware of my continued survival.

"I have studied my lodgings and the area surrounding it to find the spot where Moran has the right angle to shoot me. Snipers," he chuckled. "So predictable when you know their target."

John was quiet as he considered. "And when will you reveal yourself as alive?"

"If all goes well, the day after we capture Moran and have him arrested," he replied.

"Wait, arrested? Does...does Greg know?"

"That I'm alive? No. But he does have a mysteriously anonymous informant," Sherlock replied with a wide grin.

The doctor chuckled. "Alright, I'll be there."

"Excellent! Here is the address of our meeting point, tomorrow night at eight o'clock."

* * *

John was a couple minutes late to the meeting point. Sherlock, in a large hat (not a deerstalker, John noted with some measure of amusement) and carrying an umbrella that seemed like he might have borrowed from Mycroft, stood impatiently waiting.

"Sorry, sorry - Mrs Hudson's hip was acting up and she couldn't -"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. Moran hasn't arrived yet anyways; I've been watching. Come on, let's get to a better spot before Moran shows up."

Slinking through the shadows and alleys, they crossed the road and went to an abandoned apartment building. "The flat I'm staying in is across the road," he explained softly as they went to the third floor. "This should be the best angle..."

He fell silent at the sight of the open window and a small paper on the sill. A large, hollow-point bullet sat atop the note to hold it in place. With gloved hands, Sherlock plucked both up and together they read the note.

**_I hope you have a good babysitter, Dr Watson. ~Moran_**

"Oh my God," John exclaimed as he read the neat, blockish handwriting. "He's going after Sophie!"

Sherlock tucked the note and bullet into his pocket. "To Baker Street then! Hurry, John!"

The doctor paled. "Sherlock, she's not at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson's hip was acting up again and I...I asked Mira to babysit Sophie. Oh, God..."

They ran from the building to the street, where Sherlock hailed a cab and during the tense ride to Mira's flat, fired off a text.

"This...girlfriend of yours, Mira Morstan," the detective said quietly. "Her file said she was in Special Ops before she joined Scotland Yard."

The other tensed. "Yeah, she was."

"Good," Sherlock said with a nod. "She should be able to take care of herself and Sophia then."

John said nothing and hoped that Mira could.

But there was only so much you could do against a sniper when you were his target.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

When the cab screeched to a stop outside Mira's flat near the Thames, the two men hurtled out. Sherlock paused on the sidewalk and spun around, taking in a three-hundred-and-sixty degrees view of the area.

"_There_!" he exclaimed, pointing to the rooftop of the building across the road from her flat. "Movement on the roof!"

Together they ran up the fire escape stairs to the roof of the five-floor building. Just before they reached it, however, Sherlock reached into his coat and withdrew a handgun. "Here, you'll be better off with this than I," he said quickly as he gave John the firearm. The doctor took it and flicked off the safety. He nodded to Sherlock and the two burst onto the dark roof from the fire escape.

Sherlock hadn't been wrong. A figure, Moran, had moved and was now at the far end of the roof—now opposite the side nearest Mira's flat. He heard them approach and turned—

"Mira?" John said.

"John—thank God!" she exclaimed, lowering the gun in her gloved hand when she saw it was him. Her auburn hair was disheveled and her face was pale, shaken. "I don't know who he was—he came into my flat, tried to get Sophie. He drugged me, an injection of something…"

He pocketed the gun and grasped Mira's shoulders. "It's alright, calm down—breathe. Now, what happened after that? Where is he? Where's Sophie?"

"I woke up here—he must have brought me here, tied me up. He had Sophie too but left with her. I had my gun with me—I always do, ever since… Well. I untied myself after he left, but…" she stopped abruptly, only then seeming to notice Sherlock's presence. "Holmes? But—you're—you—"

He shook his head. "Not important right now. What is, however, is that you are lying, Miss Morstan. Or is it Miss Moran?"

She took a step back and raised the gun again toward them, as a wide, cold smile curled her mouth.

"Well, well, well," she murmured. "I guess the clever detective in a funny hat isn't as _ordinary_ as expected, hm? Semira Moran—at your service."

John was staring in disbelief. "Mira, you're…what?"

The sniper sighed and rolled her eyes but the gun in her hands did not move. "Oh, Johnny boy. Come now, I know you're not really this stupid. Or is it sentimental?" she wondered but shook her head. "Not the point. So, you can just pull out that Sig out of your pocket and slide it over to me."

He hesitated, glancing to Sherlock.

"_Now_," she prompted. "If you want to know where Sophie is."

That made him comply. She smiled sweetly, plucked the gun up, and pocketed it. "Thank you, sweetie. Now, Sherlock dear, what have you deduced? I'm curious, after _so_ very many stories from Jim and Johnny boy."

"I've read your file, the one about Mira Morstan," he told her, "As well as the much smaller file about Colonel Moran. All that's left to do is fill in the gaps then, yes?"

She made a face. "Oh, that's cheating, Sherlock!" she chastised. "I may as well tell it myself, shall I? Rid you of any uncertainties?"

The detective said nothing and instead stared at her intensely, picking her apart with his eyes.

She turned her icy-eyed gaze to John. "I didn't lie to you, John, when I told you about my time in the army and black ops," she told him, smiling at him despite the gun, cocked and loaded, in her hand. "Though I should mention just who recruited me because of my shooting skills. In fact, you know him! How is dear Mycroft these days?"

"Mycroft?" John stuttered out.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, making her laugh.

"Oh, he didn't even tell you?" she cooed in delight. "This is too cute. He was my boss when I was in special ops. In fact, he gave my team our final mission—the one in Greece that I told you about, John. Once I escaped and got back, I had a debriefing with him. Do you want to know what I discovered? He knew. An informant of his had tipped him off that we were to be ambushed, but he did _nothing_. He let us get captured, let my team be tortured and killed. He let me be tortured and he did _nothing _to get _any_ of us back," she spat viciously. Her blue eyes swam with icy fury.

"He wasn't even sorry, didn't even regret it!" Her voice dripped with bitter rancor. "So much for _loyalty_. So I left."

"How surprising," Sherlock muttered dryly. "No loyalty in the business of liars and killers."

She sent him a sharp look. "Watch it, Sherly. I'm the one with the leverage here—the guns _and_ your little daughter.

"I left Mycroft's employ and went underground, taking odd jobs as a sniper. That's how Jim found me. One of his rivals hired me to kill him. Fortunately, he escaped and lived. When my employer found out at our next meeting, he was furious and going to shoot me. But one of Jim's people killed him and saved my life. He called me and offered me a job. I accepted."

Sherlock was unimpressed. "How sweet. He won your loyalty by saving you after you tried to kill him."

"He did," she replied quietly. "And at his request a couple months later, I went to work at Scotland Yard."

This caught Sherlock's attention. "Oh, he had you positioned perfectly, didn't he?" the detective said. "You knew their leads, their suspects, their plans. You could discourage a certain line of inquiry or plant evidence all you wanted. For Jim."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't that obvious, Sherlock. I only swayed investigations when I needed to. Like when you came along and caught Jim's attention. I made sure Greg got the serial suicide case because I knew he'd call in you. I gave Greg the suggestion of tipping Dimmock off about you for the Chinese smuggling operation. And—of course—assigned Greg to the robberies and the kidnapping, later."

He gave a hum of thought. "For a hired sniper, you're far more involved that I had suspected, Miss Moran."

Mira laughed. "I'm not just hired muscle, you know. Jim may have been the brains of the operation, but he wasn't the only one _with brains_. I was his second in command, his chief of staff, his right hand woman."

"That wasn't all, was it?" he asked curiously. "You were lovers."

"_Very good, Mr Holmes!_" she cried. "A gold star, really. Bravo. We were, yes. Our employees didn't know it. Left business at work and kept our love life at home. Perhaps not the most romantic or conventional relationship, but yes. We were a couple. Never married or any of that—too risky that the records would be found. Otherwise, maybe.

"But then _you_ came along," she sneered to Sherlock. "You were the most perfect thing either of us hoped for. A challenge for Jim and a chance at revenge on Mycroft for me. And then you went and gave him no choice but to kill himself. I listened, you know—he had a mike in his pocket and I had a headset. I heard him shoot himself and you don't know how very much I wanted to put a bullet through your brain then and there, John. I was the sniper set to shoot you if our detective here didn't jump, you know. Jim liked the parallel of it—his other half killing your other half, Sherlock. Thought it was fittingly sentimental that his lover burn the heart of you."

She laughed: cold and cruel. "And I knew you faked your death, Sherlock. It was so obvious. Suicide is not in your repertoire; you're much too fond of yourself to do it," she said. "I think John said that once. But then Miss Adler brought about the most _wonderful_ means for luring you back."

John's hands clenched at his sides and Mira smirked.

"_Where. Is. Sophie?_" he spat to her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Mira rolled her eyes. "Calm your tits, John," she muttered and took four steps backward to stand beside an air conditioning unit. From behind it, she lifted the little girl's unconscious form. "Don't worry, it's just a little cocktail of drugs to make her sleep. Nothing else. Sniper's honor," she replied, still holding the gun steadily at them.

Before anymore could be said, there came a great uproar as several armed men stormed onto the roof from the fire escape.

"_Police!_" a familiar voice yelled. "Put your hands up and drop_—Mira?!_"

She smiled, baring all her teeth. "Oh, hello Greg!" The other officers, including Sally Donovan, stared at their superior in mute confusion and horror. Greg Lestrade gaped. "What—what are you—"

Then came another set of calm footsteps climbing the fire escape. _Step, step, tap. Step, step, tap..._

"The party's all here, then!" Mira grinned wider. "Come on out, Mycroft, _dear_."

He did, dressed in one of his usual suits and carried one of his umbrellas. "Hello, Semira."

The sniper sneered. "Finally figured it out, then, Mycroft Holmes? That Colonel Moran was your very own former, betrayed sniper?"

"Indeed," he replied neutrally.

She chuckled. "Now, go ahead and put down your umbrella, Mycroft—I know what you have it for. Unless you want me to shoot your niece, _now._" He did with a sharp glint to his eyes—_oh, he was angry now; how delightful._

"And you lot, drop the guns. Before any of you think to try something _clever_, just recall my reputation from the shooting range. I can put a bullet in Sophia's skull as soon as I hear a gun go off!"

"Do as she says!" Greg shouted, dropping his firearm.

Mira smiled. "Very good to all of you. I've got you all trained so very well, don't I? Like dogs," she sneered.

"Put Sophia down, Semira!" Mycroft ordered calmly.

She snorted. "I don't work for you anymore, Mycroft. Sorry! But I'd rather not."

"Then why don't you explain why you killed Ronald Adair?" Sherlock said loudly.

She threw her head back and laughed. "Bravo again, sweetie!" she exclaimed. "Yes, it was I. Oh, yes," Mira said to the shocked Met officers. "I worked for Jim Moriarty; I was his prized sniper and favorite lieutenant. And, on occasion, Adair helped us out.

"He got scared with everyone looking for Jim," she explained. "Thought he might get found out and considered blabbing about it to the police. So I shot him."

Sherlock was happy to explain that for her. "From the building across the road, with an air gun modified to shoot soft-nosed revolver bullets, too. Caught him with his head turned so it might be mistaken that the shooter was standing beside him. Clever."

"Why thank you," she grinned.

He wasn't finished. "And then you killed Detective Inspector Martin Chambers when he came too close to finding out."

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, the same cold smirk across her face.

"_You_ killed him?!" Greg gasped in disbelief and horror. "He was your friend!" he shouted.

"No," she disagreed coldly. "He _thought_ he was."

Abruptly, she dropped to the ground as a distant shot fired.

"Really, Mycroft?" she laughed as she crouched, still holding the gun and the child. "Trying to out-snipe the master sniper? Tut tut. Don't be so obvious next time; I can see them right now—yes, all three of them. Call them off now, or maybe next time I'll use your niece as a shield instead of ducking."

His glare was more livid than she had ever seen. He lifted a hand to his mouth. "Stand down," he said loudly to the microphone in his sleeve.

"Very good," she replied. "I'm on a rather tight schedule now, after all that." She carefully laid the child on the ground and straightened.

"It's been so very good to see you all again," she said airily as she took several steps back to the far edge of the roof. She leaned on the low wall there, completely relaxed, but the grip of her gun did not waiver. "But I believe this will be goodbye. Forever. Mycroft, lovely to see you as always. Greg, tell the superiors this is my resignation." The sniper grinned. "John, Sherlock. Always a pleasure. And now..."

In a flash, she fired the gun once. "That, Mycroft, is for Greece!" she exclaimed and fired a second time. "And that, Sherlock, is for Jim! Good luck with that!"

She leapt onto the wall and gave them a little wave as she spread her arms...

And fell...


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: This is dedicated to the anonymous reviewer who said "_UPDATE or I'll pull a Moran on you._"  
**

**Best review in a very long time!  
**

**Without further adieu...  
**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

At once, the still people all leapt into frenzied action.

As Moran vanished from sight, there came the sound of two people collapsing: both Holmes brothers.

"_Sherlock!_" John shouted, falling to his knees beside the detective. _No, no—not again—_

The detective coughed. "Stomach, John. Hit my stomach, possibly intestine," he rattled off. "Moran—she's diving into the river. Going to escape. Need a team down there to search—"

"Sherlock, for God's sake, shut up," the doctor growled. "You can help them later, after we get you to the hospital."

Greg had leapt into action the instant she fell. He snatched his radio up. "Civilians shot, we need a bus!" he ordered and rattled off their location.

Sergeant Donovan ran to the edge of the roof. "Sir, she dove into the river!" she exclaimed, staring out at the river below, running beside the building. "I'm calling a team to start searching."

Another sergeant, Collins, went to the little girl's side and checked her pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found her to only be unconscious and uninjured.

At the same time, the woman John knew as Anthea appeared on the roof, Blackberry in hand as she rattled off orders into it before pocketing it and kneeling beside her boss. "Mr Holmes?" she prompted.

Mycroft nodded, gasping slightly. "Hit my right shoulder. She wasn't shooting to kill. Have a dive team search for her now. I want that woman in our custody—dead or alive; I'll take either at the moment, though alive is preferable."

She nodded as she removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt to inspect the injury. "Clean shot, sir. Missed your collarbone and lungs," she reported as she applied pressure, then added, "This reminds me of Calcutta, sir."

He snorted. "I remember Calcutta very differently than you, apparently. That was much not as bad."

She shrugged slightly. "Perhaps."

Across the roof, Lestrade finished barking out orders over the radio and knelt beside the fallen detective. He glared at the man.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, you had better have a damn good explanation to what you are doing here, _alive_. If you weren't shot right now, I think I'd punch you."

The detective smirked. "John beat you to it," he said hoarsely as said man pressed down on the gunshot wound.

John looked to Greg urgently. "Greg, can you get Sophie, make sure she's okay? Mi—_Moran_ said she drugged her."

"Collins has got her," he reported. "She's in good hands until EMTs get here."

He nodded. "Thank goodness."

Greg nodded. "We're going after Moran before she gets far. We have ambulances on the way and I think you're in good hands." He stood and went to the others from his team.

Sherlock looked to John curiously. "May I come back to Baker Street now?"

The doctor huffed out a tired laugh. "Yeah, Sherlock. You can."

* * *

A month later found them walking into Scotland Yard, where they were met with plenty of stares and gaping expressions.

Sally Donovan stood outside Lestrade's office. "Well, back again, Freak," she greeted coolly, arms crossed. "Not dead then?"

He snorted. "Good to see you too, Sally. Despite the fall from the Bart's roof and the efforts of an international assassin among others, I am very much alive."

Her lips thinned and she merely told him, "Well, don't do it again." She stalked off without another word. John watched the exchange with confusion but said nothing and they went into Greg's office.

"John, Sherlock," he greeted, looking up from paperwork. "Finally out of the hospital, I see, Sherlock?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Only this morning. He was insistent upon coming to see how your search was going."

Lestrade frowned and leaned back in his chair. He motioned for them to do the same before he replied. "We haven't found any trace of her—dead or alive. We're beginning to consider if she died in the fall."

A memory came to the front of John's mind. "I don't think she can—could—swim," he offered. "I think it's a possibility she might have drowned. I don't really think she had much of a plan beside get revenge, especially now that everyone knows about her. She admitted to being, er, Moriarty's lover," he said awkwardly, "and she sounded like she really cared for him. She might have just wanted revenge and then commit suicide."

Sherlock nodded. "That is one possibility. From what I gathered, she was quite a loyal person until crossed. Take her being in Mycroft's employ. She was a loyal worker until he was willing to let her and her team die. Moriarty, on the other hand, proved 'loyal' to her and so she set out to avenge him. That is a very real possibility."

None spoke for several minutes until Lestrade asked, "Speaking of your brother, how is he?"

The detective snorted. "Out of the hospital as well and annoying as ever. He mentioned his office was assisting your team in the search for Moran."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. He's been very helpful. And, ah, how's Sophie? I haven't seen her since that night."

"Surprisingly well, actually," John replied with a smile. "She doesn't remember anything about the roof—just me dropping her off beforehand and then waking up in the hospital. She took Sherlock's, er, continued survival rather well too."

"What'd she do?" he asked, seeing the grin on John's face.

The doctor chuckled. "She stared at him for a moment before slowly asking him if he really faked his death to protect me, you, and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock just kinda stared at her warily before slowly saying yes. She nodded and said 'good' before standing up and hugging him around the knees."

As Greg burst into loud laughter at the image, John simply grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Epilogue**

Time went on.

The search for Moran dwindled with time as they found nothing. She did not crop up again, and nor had a body been recovered. The case turned cold as other criminals and cases caught the attention of the residents of Baker Street.

Life adjusted in 221B to normality as Sherlock returned to his life there, John stopped his mourning, and Sophie came to know her biological father.

* * *

Six months later, a card came in the mail without a return address. Sherlock opened it, his expression one of boredom before turning sharply to interest.

The front of the card depicted a cartoonish stork carrying a pink bundle in its beak. _Congratulations on your little girl!_ was printed on the front. He opened the card and froze as a photograph fell out and he read the calligraphic writing inside.

_Sorry, John, I lied about my ability to swim._

_Sherlock, you two keep yours and I keep mine. Deal?_

— _Semira Moran_

_PS, Jim sends his love._

The enclosed photo was of two people: a woman with dark auburn hair, smug blue eyes, and a tan that spoke of much time spent outdoors, and a slender man with short black hair, dark eyes, and a wide smirking grin. He had an arm around his companion's waist. Sherlock could see the outline of a gun strapped to her hip underneath her jacket.

Jim Moriarty and Semira Moran.

Well. Both lived, it seemed. Unsurprising, really. If the detective could fake falling from a building, he had no doubt they could fake their own deaths as well.

In the background, though. New York City—with its famously recognizable skyline.

His eyes did not miss the matching rings on their left ring fingers. (He had never taken Moriarty for the marrying type and supposed it may not be official.)

They were gone to the States and out of his hair. The detective would keep an eye out, but he doubted either consulting criminal or assassin would coming looking for trouble.

After a moment, Sherlock laid the card and photo on the mantel beside the skull.

John and Sophie would be getting back from Tesco's soon anyway. He'd promised to play his violin for Sophia.

He would tell John about it later, he decided as he heard John and his daughter coming up the stairs. He could think about it later. For now, it quite seemed as if everything would be just fine. And he pitied the foolish person who would attempt to make it otherwise.

Sherlock Holmes smiled, standing before the window, looking out to Baker Street below as he raised his violin and began to play.


End file.
